Canadian Winter
by Jeimii
Summary: Sam, the 22 year-old transfer from CSI Chicago takes on a case with Nick Stokes. Little do they know the danger they face when they come across a serial killer, whom seems to stop at nothing. NickxOC. Rated for some later scenes.
1. The Newbie

Summary: Sam, the 22 year-old transfer from CSI Chicago takes on a case with Nick Stokes. Little do they know the danger they face when they come across a serial killer, whom seems to stop at nothing. NickxOC.

Canadian Winter

Chapter One

The Newbie

The night crawled its way once more across the Vegas Strip, and once again, Graveyard were on their way to their next shifts. Gil Grissom assorted the group together, handing out the usual cases for the teams.

"'Rick, you and Catherine are gonna investigate a break-in." Grissom said, handing the paper to Warrick Brown, who took it and eyed it.

"Two victims," he said, reading aloud to Catherine, whom was stood next to him. "Both with gun shots to the head."

"I doubt that's all it says," said Catherine, taking the paper from 'Rick and read it herself, her eyes darting from left to right and back again.

"And Nick," Gil said, handing over another piece of paper to Nick Stokes, "You get the honour of meeting with our newest transfer today."

"Huh?" replied Nick, suddenly taking a keen interest in the aged man before him. "A newbie? I thought that was just a rumour."

"Well, sometimes rumours turn out to be true, don't they?" said Grissom, a flicker of a smile twitching his cheeks. "Everyone," he added, holding out his hand as a young man entered the threshold "This, is Sam. Joined us from Chicago."

Sam walked into the corridor where they were stood. He stood somewhat timidly, his back slightly arched, as though he was about to run for the nearest exit. He was only about 5'7", sandy-blond hair and vibrantly blue eyes. His green T-shirt caressed what was sure to be a toned chest, his arms filling the sleeves of the T-shirt to which they almost stretched around them.

The group greeted him with friendly gestures, "Hi"s and "Hello"s. After Warrick shook Sam's hand, Gil turned to Nick and Sam.

"You two will be working on a suspected homicide." Gil said, passing the paper over to Nick.

Nick read the first few lines, pausing with a slight frown on his face. His brown eyes looked swiftly up at Grissom. "Vic was found in a trash can?" he said, Gil nodded, and his gaze returned to the paper in his hand. "Completely nude, arms and legs bound with duct-tape, head wrapped in plastic wrap, duct-taped shut."

"Yes," said Grissom, an almost sarcastic hint to his voice. He raised his hands slightly as if to say "any questions?" before the groups dispatched to their locations.

Sam and Nick walked out the front doors into the humid heat of another Las Vegas night. 'Rick and Catherine headed to their car, waving off Nick and Sam before pulling away, disappearing into the rumble of traffic ahead of them.

Nick headed to his car, Sam a full foot behind him. They got into the car, buckling up before Nick checked the mirrors, and turned to Sam.  
Nick eyed Sam up slightly, taking in every detail about him, and the obviousness of his body language that Sam was hesitant and almost slightly embarrassed; his cheeks were flushed slightly red.

"So," said Nick, turning on the ignition, an inane way of starting a conversation. "You just transferred from Chicago?"

"Yeah," replied Sam, his voice breaking slightly, it was slightly higher than Nick was used to hearing in Las Vegas, but he didn't have trouble understanding Sam; he obviously was not born in Chicago. "I transferred here because I had to leave Chicago, too many bad memories of the place."

Nick pulled out of the car park and headed for the traffic jam ahead of them. He did not dare press on why Sam had transferred to Las Vegas, particularly the "bad memories" aspect of it. He didn't want to pressure the newbie on his first day.

"We've been hearing for a few months that someone was gonna transfer here, I'm assuming it was you all along?" he said, pulling up to a red light, as traffic streamed from either side of the road.

"Yeah, it was a bit of a hassle to do the paperwork and everything, but I just didn't wanna stay there any more. Like I said, bad memories of the place." Sam replied. He seemed fair, honest and open, but that was not gonna mean Nick was gonna ask _why_ he left. Yet.

Nick couldn't help but notice that Sam was fidgeting with his hands, and his eyes darted around the vehicle, and the scenery outside. Seemed as though he was new to the whole concept.

"So how long have you worked with CSI?" asked Nicked, as the light finally flashed green, and they took the right turn into a new street just off The Strip.

"Oh, for three years." said Sam, in an off-hand kind of way, but Nick was impressed.

"Y'know, not many people can say they joined CSI when they were nineteen." he forced his voice to be one of airiness, rather than that of total surprise.

"Well, I studied hard at school and college. Science and forensics has always fascinated me." replied Sam, seemingly staring anywhere but at Nick, who kept giving furtive glances at Sam, but ensuring his concentration was on the road ahead of them. "I just wanted to get into this side of the law, and study crime scenes and everything, it just gives me a buzz, I can guess you can say.."

Nick stifled a laugh. "A 'buzz'?" he said, barely restraining his smile. "You sound just like Grissom. Loves his work. I don't think he'd leave the building if we didn't make him."

"He's just like me then," replied Sam, a small flicker of a smile darting on his face for a brief second, eyeing the prostitutes stood on the corner of the street. "I love everything to do with this, it's fascinating working from a body with maybe a few clues to cracking a case. Like I said, it gives me a buzz."

"I'm sure Grissom would propose here and now if he heard you say that!" said Nick, a laugh finally parting his lips. Sam giggle slightly, before scratching his nose and going back to twiddling his fingers.

They finally arrived at the crime scene. Tape had already been set up around the perimeter of the alleyway, an ambulance and three police cars stood at the entrance to the alleyway.

"Here we go, then," said Nick, unbuckling his seatbelt before getting out.

Sam did the same, before going to the rear of the car and removing the camera from its pouch, and putting the strap over his neck. He then grabbed a pair of latex gloves, and put them onto his hands, Nick also doing the same.

"Street's deserted," he said, more to himself than Nick. "Not a single car, or a single light on in the buildings." he added, noting the surroundings.

He walked over to the police officer stood by the tape.

"Sam Marshell," he said, flashing his new, shiny CSI badge. "Crime scene investigation."

"Took you long enough to get here," the officer said, before nodding, permitting them both to pass.

Sam didn't reply, but the camera was already in his hands, walking over the the large, industrial trash can at the end of the alleyway. The place was dimly lit, the only source of light from that of the solitary street lamp behind them in the street. The alleyway was a dead-end. The rough brickwork either side of them was brown and almost coated in darkness.

Nothing else was in the alleyway besides the trash can.

Sam walked over, stepping onto a small step ladder at the bottom of the can, before leaning over and taking in the sight before him. He suppressed the urge to look away immediately, and forced the camera to his eye.

Meanwhile, Nick was busy with his torch, scoping the area for any clues. He noted some tyre tracks on the tarmac, not only barely visible due to the darkness, but also the fact the tarmac itself was so dark.

Sam clicked away at his camera, ensuring he got a good view of the body each time. The body was blue, the man had obviously been there a while. He was rested on his stomach, trash bags around him, his head turned to his right. Sam photographed every detail, from his hands, to his toes, to the bag over the man's head.

The work took a long time, and the sky had begun to lighten as they progressed through the night. By the time they were done, the sky had become a vibrant indigo and purple; dawn was approaching.

"Okay," Sam called over to Nick. "Vic's been photographed, you can bag him up now guys."

The paramedics hurried over to the trash can and begun carefully lifting the body out. Sam took the camera strap from his shoulders and began walking over to Nick.

"Found anything at all?" he asked, staring at the tyre tracks Nick had spotted previously.

"Not really," replied Nick, his brow furrowing. "Seems the killer knows what he's doing. Nothing here other than those tyre tracks, and they might not even belong to his car."

Sam shouldered the camera once more and took multiple photos of the tracks, when the paramedics wheeled the body passed, they were in the middle of zipping up the bag, when Sam called them to stop, and took another look at the body.

"Now _that's_ something I didn't spot." he said, his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

Nick stood up and examined the body too. His brow furrowed once more as he stared at the body's torso.

"How did you miss that?" Nick said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"I didn't move the body," replied Sam, putting the camera to his eye once more, clicking away.

The bare torso had what seemed inch-deep cuts across it, and the stomach had the word "_QUEeR_" carved into the flesh.

After the photographs were taken, Nick and Sam headed to the car once more, loaded up their things, and begun to head back to the Crime Lab.

Sam's head was buzzing with thoughts. "So there were no prints whatsoever?" he asked, almost timidly, but more out distraction to his thoughts.

"There were a few," replied Nick, turning right out of the side-street they were in. "But most were from what seemed weeks ago, y'know, from garbage men. I've obviously tagged them, but there were a few at the rim of the trash can. I'm wondering if those were the victim's." He fell silent at this point, as the mood became apparent to both of them.

"You're saying this guy was _alive_ when he was plastic-wrapped?" said Sam, his eyes widening at the thought.

"Could be," said Nick, taking a tentative glance over at Sam, who's jaw was slightly agape. "We're bringing in the garbage can for testing, and we'll know whether or not he was alive when he was dumped into the trash can. Even if he was, he had no hope of surviving, that plastic wrap was wrapped around him very tightly. He probably had minutes, if that. But we'll know whether or not he when we empty that garbage can."

"But there wasn't any blood on any of the bags he was laid on top of." said Sam, mind whizzing with thoughts.

"The blood could've dripped its way to the bottom of the trash can," replied Nick, pulling into the car park.

"But that would mean the body's been there a while," said Sam, unbuckling his seatbelt and staring out at the increasingly-lightening sky.

"Yeah," replied Nick, getting out as well. "But that doesn't mean the guy wasn't alive when he was dumped in that trash can."

"Do you think he was cut whilst in the trash can? Or do you think it was done before?" asked Sam, hesitance in his voice, something was obviously bothering him.

"Hard to say," replied Nick, looking at Sam's vibrant blue eyes, the wind gently whipping the young man's hair. "All I can say is that the crime scene was impeccable. Whoever did it was either very careful, or cleaned up after themselves."

Sam slowly nodded, almost taken aback for a moment. He stood, the cool wind whipping his face, he stood, staring long and hard at the car's window, taking in his reflection, his past, his mistakes...

"You comin'?" asked Nick, who was stood at the door, an almost worried look on his face.

Sam eased up a bit, loosening his shoulders. "Yeah," he said, rubbing his head. "Yeah, of course."

And with that, he followed the CSI agent into his new home.

(A/N: Okay, REALLY random story here, but I was inspired watching CSI to do my own storyline. But, anyway, hope you enjoy! :D)


	2. Letters to No One

Canadian Winter

Chapter Two

Letters to No One

Nick lead Sam past the numerous offices in the Crime Lab; walking past the officers was somewhat daunting for Sam. Even though there had been a lot more of them back in Chicago, he always felt uneasy in their presence.

They came to a stop outside one of the rooms, when Nick turned to Sam.

"So," he said, eyeing Sam up a little bit. "This is our little slice of Heaven."

He widened his arms, and Sams eyes traced the glass walls, tiled flooring and smooth, bare walls. It was certainly a lot more different than that of Chicago, that was for sure. He noted the numerous people walking past, busy with their files, eyeing pieces of collected evidence, goggles on their foreheads. They seemed to work as a well-oiled machine, not like Chicago.

"Oh," said Nick, distracting Sam's train of thought. "I'll introduce you to Greg, too. He's our 'shut-in', he's usually always here, but I don't see him. Must've slept in late, again."

"Okay." replied Sam, following Nick into the cooled lab in front of them, but not before eyeing up the corridor one more time.

"I'm not gonna impede your intelligence by naming each of these machines," said Nick, standing one side of the table in the middle of the room, and removing what little evidence they did have onto its surface. "You've worked in CSI before, so you'll know all this stuff anyway."

Sam, however, was a little too busy staring at Nick, taking in his well-built frame, his strong jawbone, his muscular arms. He then wrenched himself out of the thoughts.

'No,' he thought to himself. 'Not here, this is how you got into trouble in the first place.'

"You okay?" asked Nick, looking up, surveying Sam's increasingly introverted stance.

"Yeah," said Sam, shuffling forward a little. "Yeah, I'm fine." He ambled over to the table, surveying the six separate fingerprints they had collected. "Not much going on here, is there?" he said, in an all-too eager way of shifting the subject.

Nick didn't respond for a second, almost about to ask Sam why he was acting kind of strangely, but thought the better of it and scooped the prints up.

"No," he said finally, putting the prints down next to a complicated-looking machine. "Our best bet is to ID these prints, see what comes up."

Sam stood next to Nick as he scanned a print into the machine, watching the screen flicker to life and begin analysing the print. It took a few minutes of awkward silence between them before the machine 'pinged', telling them it had found a positive match on the print.

Sam's eyes narrowed as the data for the print was brought up. Nick contemplated the information in front of him for a few seconds, before turning to Sam.

"I think it'd be best if we question every person who these prints belong to," he said, taking a tentative glance at Sam, whose eyes had not left the monitor. "It's our only chance of actually knowing where these guys were."

"Yeah," replied Sam, it came out almost monotonously. "I think so too. It's the only way we can eliminate each guy, because for now, all of them are suspects."

"Are you okay?" asked Nick, raising the topic once more. He couldn't help but feel that Sam was somehow uncomfortable to be with him.

Sam looked up at Nick, his eyes widened to that of a deer in headlights briefly, before he regained control, however, his cheeks flushed very red. "Yeah," he said, blinking slowly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"I just get the impression you're not comfortable around me." replied Nick, folding his arms, his eyes narrowing slightly. "If you want, I can get you reassigned?"

"No, no!" exclaimed Sam, almost rushing forward. "No, it's not like that! It's.. It's just weird being here. I was so used to being in Chicago that this is somewhat of a culture shock to me. I've never worked in a place where I've been greeted so, so _warmly_."

At that moment, Sam felt his eyes well up. 'Damn it!' he thought to himself, wiping his eyes on his T-shirt. 'Fucking perfect, crying on the first day of the job, pull yourself together!'

Nick hadn't mistook the sign. "What's wrong?" he asked, suddenly getting closer to Sam.

Sam looked up at Nick's face, his eyes glowing with almost sadness.

"Sorry," replied Sam, wiping his eyes a final time. "I, I just never had 'friends' in Chicago. No one really wanted to have anything to do with me after what I did."

'Shit! That was _far_ too much information!' Sam could've slapped himself.

Nick saw the twinge in Sam's face after he said his last sentence, and quickly changed the topic back to work, and the man who had been positively identified on the computer.

"So, this guy, Herbert Brown," he said, focusing on the screen, and not at Sam, who wiped a solitary tear from his face. "Previous conviction of DUI, and possession of Class A. I say we reel him in."

"Yeah," replied Sam, clearing his throat. "Yeah, but let's check everyone else's first."

They then ran the rest of the fingerprints into the machine, it's pinging the only noise to break the silence that had grown between them.

Sam really wished he had not begun to cry like he did. He didn't want to look weak in front of Nick, nor anyone else for that matter. He wanted them to think he was strong enough to fight his own battles, whether he won them or not.

After three hours, the computer had finally completed all six fingerprints, and the conversation between Sam and Nick hadn't gotten much further. If they were going to work on this case together, Sam had to be sure he knew Nick in and out, as well as the other members of the team.

"So," began Sam, almost catching himself by surprise at the words escaping from his mouth. "Tell me about yourself? I think it best we get to know each other a little better whilst working on this case."

Sam soon found out that Nick was the son of a judge and lawyer, Bill and Jillian Stokes, and that he was the youngest of seven siblings. He was in his 30's, 33 to be specific, and he was born in Texas.

"So what about you?" asked Nick, an hour later as they sat in the dark room, developing the photographs Sam had taken of the crime scene.

Sam was somewhat reluctant to share details about himself, but something in Nick's expression told him he wouldn't judge,

"Well," started Sam, looking at the floor, before moving a photograph from the tray and hanging it on the line above them. "I'm 22, I was born in London, but moved to New York with my parents when I was four.. I studied Criminal Law at New York University. I'm an only child, my parents weren't too fond of having a lot of children around."

"Did you join the fraternity at NYU?" asked Nick interestedly, having been part of a fraternity himself at college. He took more photos out of the developing fluid.

"Me? Oh, no." Sam said, chuckling slightly. "I wasn't 'jock' enough to join the fraternity, so I just didn't bother. Plus, heavy drinking and sleeping around with other members is just, sorta not my thing."

"You? Not jock enough?" asked Nick an eyebrow raised, whilst pegging another photo up. "You're built like a house, how could they say no to you?"

"Trust me," said Sam, taking the final photo out of the fluid. "I was _not_ like this at NYU. Not at all." His sentence ended almost abruptly, as he realised he'd brushed Nick's hand almost flirtingly.

Nick seemed to have noticed, too. By the look on his face, he seemed taken aback, almost shocked at the gesture.

"S-Sorry!" said Sam, retracting his hand as quickly as it had touched Nick's. "It's far too cramped in this room."

"It's okay," said Nick, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't worry about it."

'I am so glad this light is red,' thought Sam, feeling his cheeks, which were extremely hot. 'Otherwise he'd see me like this! Jeez..'

"C'mon," said Nick, removing his gloves. "Let's get a coffee whilst we wait for these to dry."

"O-Okay," replied Sam, almost rushing forward out of the room. A cooling sensation wafted at his face as he left the dark room, thank goodness for air conditioning.

Nick led them to one of the coffee machines in a small break room. The walls here, too, were bare and smooth.

They sat at the only table in the room, which was empty except for them. Nick handed Sam a cup from the machine, and sat and sipped his own, resting an arm on the back of his chair, staring hard out of the window.

Sam thought about the case he was working on. They had little to no evidence whatsoever, besides a few prints that may or may not be linked to the case at all, and he guessed the latter. And also a set of tyre tracks that too, may not be linked at all. It was a far cry from Chicago, where cases were much easier to work through, as suspects seemed to be a lot clumsier there, leaving heaps of evidence behind them, mostly unintentionally.

Sam was about to talk when a man in a white lab coat came bursting through the doors, panting, out of breath.

"T-There you are!" he said, clutching his side, where a stitch had formed.

"What're you talking about, Greg?" asked Nick, placing his coffee down on the table.

"G-Grissom told me to come look for you." Greg replied, shaking his head. "Said your body's here, needs to be properly ID'd by you."

"Oh, okay then," said Nick, turning to Sam. "Looks like break's over."

Sam nodded, placing his empty cup into the bin before getting up and standing beside Nick. He eyed Greg up and down, his MP3 dangling freely from his jeans' pocket, the earphones draped around his neck, the cheerful grin upon his face.

"Oh, sorry!" said Nick, shaking his head slightly. "Sam, this is Greg, our lab technician. Greg, this is Sam, he joined yesterday."

"Nice to meet you," said Greg, reaching out his hand, which Sam accepted and shook.

"And you," replied Sam, releasing his grip and returning his hand to his side, a friendly grin on his face.

"Well, we'd better go," said Nick, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "See you, Greg." he added, patting him on the back.

Nick kept his hand on Sam's shoulder the entire way to the morgue. Sam made sure that his face was not seen by Nick, which seemed impossible to Sam, as he could swear his face must resemble a red traffic light at in the dead of night.

Finally, they reached the morgue. They opened the door, and a wave of cold rolled over them like a tidal wave. Sam had always hated the morgue for this reason. It was always so cold in them, and it seemed this was no exception.

"Hey, Doc," said Nick, giving a friendly smile, his hand still upon Sam's shoulder.

"Ah, hello Nick, and friend," the man said, eyeing Sam.

"This is Sam," Nick said, removing the hand on Sam's shoulder, before replacing it there with a pat, and keeping it there still. "He just joined us."

"Ah, well, welcome Sam!" replied the man, holding out a hand, which Sam shook. "I'm Albert Robbins, but people here call me either Al or simply Doc. I think you should say Doc, assuming you're bad at remembering names, it'll save us an awkward silence."

"Anyway," said Nick, raising an eyebrow before walking with Sam over to a table, a white sheet covering it. "Is this our vic?"

"Man found in trash can?" asked Al, replacing his latex gloves with a new pair. "Yes, yes it is. I just need you to let me know it is him, and I can go into details about injuries."

Al then proceeded to remove the sheet a little, showing the deceased man's face. His was disfigured slightly, the man's eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He was still slightly blue.

"This him?" asked Al, after a few seconds.

"We never saw his face it was covered in plastic wrap," said Sam, looking at the body, the warmth of Nick's hand still firmly on his shoulder. "Can we see the stomach?"

"Certainly, young Sam," replied Al, taking the sheet even lower, revealing the torso and stomach. The word "_QUEeR_" still etched into it.

"Yup," said Nick, letting out a small sigh. "That's our guy."

Sam nodded slowly, taking in the horrific details once more. Nick's hand finally left Sam's shoulder, and almost slowly drifted down his back. Same could've sworn... No, it couldn't have been. Must've been an accident... Or did Nick just cop a feel of his ass?

Nick then got out a fingerprint sampler. "Do you mind?" he asked, looking at Al.

"Go ahead," replied Al, nodding his head.

Nick then got a fingerprint from the victim's hand. He sealed it up and placed it into his pocket. "Now we'll know if our victim was alive when he was thrown into the trash can," he said, a somewhat wider smile than should be on his face.

Sam nodded, looking back at the victim. "Can you tell us what caused these wounds?" he asked, looking from the body, to Al, and back again.

"Yes," said Al, an eyebrow raised in scepticism. "I had a little trouble at first, because the wounds all seemed to be different. But I can say with certainty that these wounds were caused by a Stanley knife."

"A _Stanley knife_?" exclaimed Sam, utter shock etched onto his face. He then surveyed the wounds once more.

"Yes, and my estimation is, this guy's been dead at least three days." said Al, looking from Sam to Nick.

They stood in silence for a few moments. Sam felt the feeling of tears come upon him once more, but he forced himself not to, and instead just focused on the body in front of him.

"Another interesting thing is," began Al once more, breaking the silence. "The writing on the victim's stomach."

"What about it?" asked Nick, leaning in to the letters etched onto the man's stomach.

"Well, it was written by two different people," said Al, pointing to the letters.

"Are you sure?" asked Sam, now looking closer at the stomach.

"Positive," replied Al. "If you look here, the _Q_, _U_, and first _E_ were written by one person, and the second _e_ and _R_ were written by someone else. I've had the handwriting analysed."

"So, the killer had an accomplice," said Nick, a dark tone in his voice.

"Yeah, it seems so," replied Sam, eyeing the letters once more, fear suddenly taking over. How could someone have done this?

(A/N: Another chapter done! Hope you enjoyed it. I'm certainly on a role here! I'm in the mood to continue, so hopefully another chapter will be up soon!)


	3. Shrimp

Canadian Winter

Chapter Three

Shrimp

Sam and Nick left the morgue shortly after. Sam's mind was buzzing. He threw theory after theory through his head, each seemingly more far-fetched and ridiculous than the last. But he knew one thing straight away, this was a homophobic killing; the carving in the victim's stomach had made that much obvious.

"You okay there, Sam?" asked Nick, where they once again found themselves in the small break room. "You look a little tense."

Sam was forced out of his train of thought, and looked at Nick from across the table, his now lukewarm coffee sat in front of him. He stroked the edges of the cup in an attempt to do something, before replying "I'm fine."

Nick didn't respond, but could tell that something was troubling Sam, whether it was about the case or not, Nick couldn't tell. He cleared his throat, and drained the rest of the cup, coffee now rancid.

"C'mon," he said softly, taking Sam's still-full cup and pouring it down the drain. "We need to round up these suspects of ours."

"Yeah," replied Sam, absent-mindedly standing up, staring at the same spot on the table. "Sure. Let's go."

He broke his focus and put it to Nick's back, following him into the lab they were in previously. Nick held the door open for Sam, who thanked him. He wandered over to the computer screen, the results still flashing from before, flickering in the dimly-lit room. He heard the door behind him close, and the flickering of new lights flashed into existence.

Nick wandered over and stood next to Sam, eyeing the computer screen in front of them both.

"You still got that finger print?" Sam asked, looking at Nick.

"Yeah," replied Nick, the air in the room had suddenly become very thick between them, Sam was flushing heavily. "Here." he added, passing the sample over to Sam, who fed it into the computer.

It whirred and beeped for just over five minutes, before it "pinged", and a file flashed across the screen. Information loaded simultaneously, and both of their eyes darted back and forth, taking in the information in front of them.

"It's a match to the fingerprints inside the trash can," said Sam solemnly. "The guy _was_ alive when he was thrown in there."

"Yeah," replied Nick darkly, his eyes narrowing at the screen. "Which means he was also alive when they cut into him."

"He must've been in incredible pain," said Sam, still a sad expression upon his face. "How could someone do this?"

"The world can be a cruel place," replied Nick, still looking at the computer's screen. "But it's not our job to ask why, we've gotta follow the evidence and let that tell us why."

"Well, let's do it then," replied Sam, rifling through the fingerprint samples they had collected. "Let's round these guys up and question them. We could be somewhat closer to finding out who did this."

Herbert Brown, Rodney Freeman, Judy Campbell, Eric Gregory, Keith Stade were the five prints that the computer had brought up. The victim, Dennis Rodman, had also been identified. They begun to track down the potential suspects, tracing their addresses and preparing to go and question them.

"Who was it who found the body?" asked Sam, the question suddenly dawning on him.

"Local deli owner," replied Nick, grabbing his coat, a piece of paper in hand. "Name's Rufus Demitri. He was taking out the trash at the end of his shift when he found the body."

"How tall was he?," asked Sam suddenly, looking at Nick. "Did you see him?"

"Yeah," replied Nick, putting his jacket on and picking the paper up again. "I spoke to him while you detailed the trash can. He was no taller than you. Why?"

"Did he say whether he took out the trash, or he got someone else to do it?" asked Sam, not breaking his eye contact on Nick.

"Said he took it out. Why all the questions?" said Nick, his eyes slightly narrowing, his brow beginning to furrow.

"Well, I'm 5'7"," said Sam, his tone getting suddenly dark. "I needed a stepladder in order to see inside. His fingerprints weren't even on the can. And that stepladder was put there for us. How did he know there was a body there when he couldn't even _see_ into the trash can?"

The penny dropped for Nick, and he quickly left the room.

"Nick!" shouted Sam, grabbing the sheet of paper with a suspect's information and heading to the door. "Where are you goin'?"

Nick didn't reply, but disappeared around the corner. Sam shut the door and followed Nick's trail down the corridor. Officers and other workers passed Sam without a second glance up. He rushed down the corridor, in an effort to keep up with Nick's large strides.  
Eventually, Sam found Nick in a smaller office, occupied by a computer/ He was sat in front of the screen, typing away as Sam approached.

"What're you doing?" he asked, staring at Nick, who's concentration remained on the screen.

"Looking up some information on Rufus," Nick replied, finally glancing at Sam. "Thanks for the info, Shrimp." It wasn't said in malice, it was more said in a way of a nickname

"Shrimp?" said Sam, raising an eyebrow.

Nick grinned slightly, before looking up again. "Yeah," he said, a broad grin on his face as he turned the screen for Sam to see.

Sam read through the information on-screen quickly. "Seems like Demitri is a regular jailbird." he said, finally finishing reading. "His rap-sheet looks longer than my arm."

"Perhaps your whole body," replied Nick, unable to stifle laughter.

"So I'm gonna be the butt of short jokes now, huh?" said Sam, playfully hitting Nick with the paper in his hand, a smile breaking out onto his face.

"Seems so," said Nick, the grin somewhat leaving his face. "I never noticed until you said it."

"Me and my big mouth," replied Sam, the smile still present. "I'm here less than a week and I'm already branded with a nickname."

"You'll get used to it, Shrimp," said Nick, looking at Sam and winking.

"So, c'mon, let's round up these guys and question them," said Sam, heading to the door once more.

"Okay," replied Nick, fastening his coat and following Sam out of the room, and into the bright sunlight of the Las Vegas day.

"Man, it's gonna be a _long_ day," Sam said, as they headed to Nick's car.

"Surely you'd be used to it?" said Nick, buckling his seatbelt.

"Oh, yeah, I am," replied Sam, opening his window, allowing the somewhat non-existent breeze to waft into the car. "I just forget how tiring it can be."

"Well, Grissom works us to the bone here," said Nick, as Sam put on his seatbelt and he turned the ignition. "You'll sometimes be hard pressed, but when you get a result out of it, then it's all in a day's work."

"So, who're we going to first?" asked Sam, flipping through the six pages of suspects they had.

"I'd say our deli guy," replied Nick, pulling into the traffic, and stopping at a red light. "He could give us plenty of information regarding this, maybe some he doesn't expect to."

"You got it," replied Sam, as the light shifted to green. "Let's go see if we can find out more about this."

They turned off The Strip and headed towards the deli, and the scene of the crime. Sam's stomach was slightly at nerve, which was odd, as he was never nervous about questioning people before. Perhaps it had something to do with the closeness of this case to him as a person. Or perhaps something troubling was awaiting them at the deli store.

(A/N: I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated CW! It seems like only yesterday I updated the last chapter. Time makes fools of us all, I suppose.. Anyway, I hope you look forward to the next chapter!)


	4. Bodies, Bodies Everywhere

Canadian Winter

Chapter Four

Bodies, Bodies Everywhere

Sam and Nick approached the deli store, and pulled up outside it. They both unbuckled their seatbelts. Sam was about to open the door, his hand on the handle when Nick spoke.

"You ready?" he asked, putting a pair of sunglasses on to block the Sun.

"Ready as I'll ever be," replied Sam, feigning a smile; his stomach still a little uneasy.

They both stepped out into the burning Las Vegas Sun, it instantly heated the back of their necks. Sam once again surveyed their surroundings outside the small deli shop. It was deserted. The buildings around them almost looked dilapidated and run-down. There were few cars parked on the street, and not a single person seemed to be in sight.

"It seems an odd place to open a deli store," said Sam, seemingly more to himself than Nick.

"Huh?" replied Nick, looking up as he locked the car's doors. "What did you say?"

"Oh," replied Sam, blinking a little in the harsh light; the Sun was reflecting off the window and back into his eyes. "I just said it seems an odd place to open a deli store."

"How do you mean?" asked Nick, walking over to Sam's side, onto the pavement.

"Look at the place!" said Sam, a little more forceful than he needed to. "This place is run-down. There's not a soul in sight. There's something almost... _suspicious_about it, dontcha think?"

"Hmm," replied Nick, surveying their surroundings also. He took one look down one side of the street, and back down the other way. "Well, maybe the guy opened this place when it was a more populated area?"

"I suppose," said Sam, his train of thought returning to him. It was indeed suspicious, but it could also be entirely innocent. "But it's still a little odd."

"Maybe he could only afford the rent to come here?" replied Nick, nodding towards the deli store. "Las Vegas can be an expensive place. Plus, we're not here to immediately jump to conclusions, we're here to follow the clues laid out in front of us."

"Yeah,"replied Sam, rubbing his temple slightly. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, I was kinda out of line there. Sorry."

"It's okay," said Nick, almost raising an eyebrow. Something was obviously bothering Sam, but now was not the time to question it.

They both turned to the deli store in front of them. The building itself was grubby. It's once-smooth yellow walls were now peeling away in various places. The large white, green and red sign above the store read "Rufus' Deli". It, too, was grubby and in need of a clean. The white parts of the sign seemed to be smeared with what appeared to be mud. And the letters had begun to peel. There were two large windows either side of the door; all the glass needed to be clean, as dirt and dead insects were stuck to its surface.

"Let's go," said Nick, leading the way into the small deli store.

Sam followed suit, and was immediately greeted by the smell of bread. The tiled floor was red and white, with smooth white walls and a red border running through the room. There were a few booths, all with red sofas and white tables. On the opposite side to them stood a large metal counter, with a service hatch showing the small kitchen behind it. Various salad items were placed behind a glass cabinet, obviously the choices of filling for sandwiches.  
The shop was deserted. Not a soul in sight. Quiet music could be heard in the background, and four fans overhead spun lazily, somewhat refreshing the stagnant air.

The door had jingled when they opened it, and it rang around the room, almost echoing. Noises and quick shuffling let them know someone was here, and said person was aware of their presence. A quick clang of pans and a small, stout man appeared behind the bar.  
The man was short, tan with very black hair and very thick eyebrows. A large moustache hung on his upper lip; it seemed everything about the man was large in size. He was extremely hairy, and what appeared to be very sweaty too. He had a dish towel in his hands, wiping them dry.

"Ah, good morning!" he greeted warmly, holding out his arms. "Welcome, welcome! Can I get you boys anything?"

The man seemed to have an accent of Mexican decent, but he was obviously born in America; his accent only ever-so-slightly present. It was Nick who spoke first, stepping in front of Sam.

"Sorry, we're not here to eat," he said, beginning to go into his pocket. "Are you Rufus Demitri?"

"Yes, yes I am," replied Rufus, ruffling his moustache. "Why do you ask?" he added, his brown eyes almost glowing.

"I'm Detective Nick Stokes," he said, holding out his badge, it glinted slightly in the dull light of the shop. "And this is Sam Marshell. We're from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're here to talk to you about the body we found in the alleyway next to your store."

"W-Well, I was already questioned by the police," Rufus replied, wiping his head with the dish towel still in his hands. "I told them everything I knew."

"We need to ask a few follow up questions," said Sam, stepping forward, shortening the distance between the two of them and Rufus.

"Well, I'd be happy to answer any questions you have," replied Rufus, placing down his towel, his face seemed to relax slightly. "But like I said, I already told you guys what I know."

"Well, like I said, we need to ask a few follow-up questions," said Nick, a flicker of a sarcastic smile spreading upon his face. "We will have to take you to the police station though."

Rufus' face dropped. "What? B-But I haven't done anything wrong!" He once again picked up the dish towel and wiped his brow, he began to sweat profusely.

"It's a standard procedure," replied Sam, beginning to eye Rufus' strange stance. "We'll need to have a recorded conversation as evidence."

Rufus almost scoffed. But agreed he'd close his shop and go with them to the police station. A police car was called to pick him up, and Nick and Sam lead the way to the station, walking down the long corridors to a questioning room.

"You may wanna stand behind the mirror," said Nick, looking at Sam.

"You think he's more likely to talk with just one of us there?" asked Sam, a little scepticism in his voice.

"I do, yes," replied Nick, smiling a little.

"I don't bite," said Sam, folding his arms. "If there's two of us there he'll-"

"Feel more pressured and more than likely lie," Nick finished for him.

"_I_was gonna say he'd crack under said pressure." replied Sam, placing his arms now on his hips.

"Well, it's obvious that you and I have a different viewpoint don't we, Shrimp?" Nick said, opening the door to allow Sam into the observation room. A cheeky smile was on his face.

Sam sighed slightly, but obliged and walked into the room. It was dark, and bare, much like the rest of the place. A small gathering of chairs stood by the wall, a table underneath the one-way mirror, giving a full view of the room in front of him, where an even more nervous-looking Rufus Demitri sat; the solitary window behind him shone a beam directly onto his back; the balding spot on the back of his head shone in the dusty light. A police officer stood on the other side of the door, watching in the room, an almost glazed look over his eyes showed his boredom of the solitary job.

Sam dragged a chair over to the table, resting his arms on the surface, and surveyed Rufus hard. Rufus seemed to know that Sam was there, as he kept shooting furtive glances at the mirror. Sam watched as Nick was allowed into the room, and sat opposite Rufus, who, it seemed began to sweat even harder.

Nick carried in a small black device, a recorder. He placed it lightly on the table, and pushed the record button. He looked up at Rufus and begun to speak.

"Detective Nick Stokes, Case B-1A405," he said in a formal tone. "Follow-up interview with Rufus Demitri."

He gave Rufus a curt nod before going on. Nick laced his fingers together and leaned in towards Rufus, who retaliated by leaning slightly further back. Rufus was extremely uncomfortable-looking, his eyes kept darting between the door, the officer stood by it, the mirror and Nick, never keeping his gaze at anything for more than two seconds.

"So, Rufus, tell me about the week leading up to the discovery of the body in the alleyway," he said, his tone almost light and informal, yet a firmness was definitely present behind it.

"W-Well.. Uh, let's see," said Rufus, staring at the recorder, losing his train of thought. "It was a slow week that week, not a lot happened."

"I mean," said Nick, cutting in, his eye contact becoming sterner. "Whilst working did you notice anything strange, or suspicious happening around you? Any new customers appear for the week and then disappear afterwards?"

"Well," began Rufus, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "I get a mix and match combination of customers all the time, I usually see people once and never again after that."

"Think about the nights leading up to the discovery of the body," said Nick, leaning back slightly, his voice still carrying the underlining firmness to it. "Did you see anyone hanging around? Or a car or something that just didn't seem right, or out of place?"

"I-I don't remember anything or anyone suspicious," replied Rufus, his brow almost covered in sweat now. "There was nothing really suspicious about that night. I just closed up at 9:30 and took the trash out at about 10:00. That's when I found the body. I immediately called the emergency services, and they arrived within minutes."

"Well," said Nick, leaning in a bit closer. "Did you in anyway touch the body?"

"N-No!" replied Rufus, gesturing almost wildly with his hands. "It was bad enough finding the body there. After seeing it I immediately retaliated."

"We found your prints on the trash can," said Nick.

"Well I always use that trash can," replied Rufus, once more wiping his brow. "It's my company's property."

"I understand that," said Nick, the firmness in his voice becoming ever-evident. "But the prints on the can we found were fresh. Do you take the trash out sporadically throughout the day?"

"Well, no," replied Rufus, leaning in, his voice becoming more confident now. "When me or any of my staff empty a can in the store, we just put it in the back, and I take all the trash out to the can at night before closing up."

"Is it just you who takes the trash out?" asked Nick.

"Yes, my staff finish their shifts at 9pm at the latest," replied Rufus, his sweat seemed to have slowed down now. "I don't leave until about 10pm, 11pm at the latest."

"And how many staff members do you have at the store?"

"There's eight of us, including myself."

"Right, well, we'll need to interview each one of them too," said Nick, shuffling some papers on the desk.

"I understand," replied Rufus.

The interview didn't last much longer. After Rufus was free to leave, Sam stood up and left the room, and watched as Rufus walked down the corridor, towards the exit. He turned around a corner and was gone. Sam sighed, suspicion pulsed through him. Rufus _must_be hiding something, Sam knew it.

Nick placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam jumped slightly, having been lost in thought. He turned to Nick, who seemed almost stoic, his expression unreadable.

"C'mon," he said, leading Sam away. "Let's get a coffee."

Sam allowed Nick to lead him to the now-familiar break room. They sat there in silence; Sam staring out of the window, brushing his hands against his coffee cup, lost in his thoughts once more. Nick's gaze lingered on Sam for a while, seemingly trying to know what Sam was thinking.

Sam was brought back to the room by a sudden thought.

"You never asked him," he said. Nick looked up.

"Huh?" replied Nick.

"You never asked Demitri how he managed to see the body in the trash can," said Sam, it wasn't an accusatory tone. "Remember, he's no taller than me, and I had to use a step-ladder to look inside it."

"It's not really relevant though, is it?" replied Nick, taking a sip from his increasingly-cold coffee.

"It could give us a clue," said Sam. "I may be grasping at straws, but it's better than the evidence we have. Who's to say whether any of those prints we have have anything to do with this case? Those tyre tracks could belong to any old car!"

"Yes, I commend you for thinking outside the box," said Nick, putting his cup into the bin. "But we can't just jump to theories based on our thoughts. Many people do it, and it completely tampers evidence and can even sometimes place innocent people in jail. We just need to continue with what we have, and let it lead us, whether we meet a dead-end or not."

Sam said nothing, he knew Nick had a point, but jumping to theories had sometimes lead him to getting the right man or woman and putting them away where they deserved to be.  
He instead returned to staring out the window, his train of thought replaying his theories from before, whether or not they gave him concrete knowledge of the case was another story, but it was far better than having the pitiful evidence that had been laid out before them.

The door opened, and both Sam and Nick turned to see Grissom stood at the door.

"Get your coats, boys," he said suddenly.

"What's wrong?" asked Sam, standing up. Nick followed suit.

"We got another body," replied Grissom, leading them out of the door into the cool corridor. "Victim shares the same injuries and death as that of your first victim."

"Seriously?" said Nick. "Damn, we're barely into this case and we already have another body?"

"Something tells me the first body wasn't a one-off killing," said Sam, his tone turning dark. He felt a head-rush come over him, it was happening.

"We can't be sure," said Nick, as they were lead out into the midday Sun of Las Vegas. "But now we have to deal with this. Where's the body, Grissom?"

"You'll never believe it," replied Grissom, heading to the car they were about to get in.

"What do you mean?" asked Nick, buckling his seatbelt, Sam in the back seat doing the same.

"Prepare for deja vu, boys," said Grissom, turning to look at Sam in the back seat. "It's in the same dumpster we found the first body.

(A/N: Sorry about the long time between updates! I've been really bad with writing this chapter. I know how I want it to go, but hitting a wall in terms of writing stopped me in my tracks. I feel like I'm on a role now, so perhaps chapters will be a little less random! See you next time!)


	5. Déjà Vu

Canadian Winter

Chapter Five

Déjà Vu

Sam's stomach lurched uncomfortably at Grissom's words. Someone had been murdered again? And so quickly after they'd discovered the first body? And in the exact same location? Sam's nerves grew as they descended upon the now-familiarly deserted street; the surrounding buildings stood empty and desolate as they were before. This time, however, a small gathering of people had accumulated around the entrance, all trying to get a glimpse of the action ahead of them. Once again, ambulance crews and police officers stood at the cordoned-off entrance, police officers chatting to the people, getting details.

Sam reluctantly exited the vehicle after Grissom and Nick had done the same. He heaved a deep sigh and swung open the door, feeling the warm Vegas air hit his face once more, no breeze to be felt, the Sun burning the back of his neck and stinging his eyes. Grissom had gone ahead to talk with the police officers. Nick stood at the boot, gathering equipment.

Sam slammed the door shut and took his camera from the boot, not saying a word. Nick noticed his silence.

"You okay?" he asked, looking down at Sam as they both put on latex gloves.

"Huh?" replied Sam, being shook out of his state of silence. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine." he muttered, putting the camera's strap over his shoulder and heading to the entrance of the alleyway without another word. Nick stared after him thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Sam flashed his badge to the officer, whom let him pass. He ducked under the tape and saw a familiar sight; the dead-end alleyway with only a single trash can in the corner. Even in daylight, the place seemed to have an air of gloom around it; an unexpected chill, and it didn't seem to be filled with as much light, nor feel as warm as the street directly behind him.

He climbed up the stepladder once more placed in front of the trash can, and took in the sight. Even though he'd seen it before, the initial shock still shuddered through him like an electric shock.

It was another man, once again stripped completely naked. His head was wrapped tightly in plastic wrap, sealed tightly with duct tape. His face was indistinguishable, either from the wrapping, or from a beating, Sam was unsure. He was laid on his back, the word "_QUEER_" etched into his stomach as with the previous victim. However, this wound looked more pronounced; and it looked deeper. The trash can was empty except for one bag; blood pooled in various spots of the bottom. Sam began clicking at his camera once more, ensuring to get good enough angles.

It was sickening work, and Sam had to force himself not to vomit multiple times. Despite his feelings, Sam knew he was in his element, and worked quickly and efficiently, ensuring to photograph places where markers had been set down for him (by Nick).

Once again, there was little evidence, but this time, there was a fresh set of tyre tracks that started from the trash can and faded away at the entrance to the alleyway.

Sam took one last look at the body in the trash can before turning to leave. But something caught his attention. Something that shook him to the very core.

The victim's fingernails were missing. Sam leaned over to see the inside lip of the trash can and had to suppress a scream. All along the length of the inner lip were scratch marks. Marks that seemed to be left by nails. Human nails. Around the marks was congealed blood. Sam's face drained of colour, staring intently from the victim's fingers to the rim of the trash can.

Nick appeared behind him, clapping a hand to his back, startling Sam who almost toppled backwards off the ladder.

"You okay there, champ?" asked Nick, holding Sam's back to prevent him falling.

"Nick," said Sam, his tone serious. "Nick, take a look at this."

Sam descended the ladder, allowing Nick to survey the trash can. Nick furrowed his brow for a few seconds, evidently not seeing what Sam saw. Then, it clicked. Nick's eyes widened, before he slow descended the ladder and looked at Sam.

"This guy was-"

"Alive." said Sam, staring at the ground then back up at Nick. "Yeah."

A moment of collective silence arose between them. The victim had been slashed into, probably whilst still conscious and received a beating. Then his head was covered in plastic wrap, and sealed with duct-tape. The man was then thrown into the garbage can, still alive.  
The thought of such a horrific experience sent shockwave after shockwave through Sam. _How could someone even think to do this?..._

Grissom walked up to them casually, already knowing what had happened. They slowly turned their gaze to him, before returning it to the ground. Another small silence.

"If we wanna catch this madman. Or woman." Grissom said, matter-of-factly. "We need to start interviewing potential suspects. Do you have anything? _Anything_ at all to go by?"

"We've got prints from the old trash can," said Nick, looking at Grissom. Sam's gaze still stayed on the ground. "We can take this one and print it, see if we have anything doubled, or any new prints."

"Whoever these guys are," said Grissom, turning slowly and beginning to walk to the car, alerting the paramedics they could move the body. "They're not dumb. But they're certainly no geniuses. Someone will have slipped up. Something _will _have gone wrong for them."

Sam and Nick stared at each other for a moment, before Grissom, putting on his sunglasses and turning to them, said "Oh, and boys, this is starting to get serious. This could be a case leading up to a serial killer. Find the culprits, and find them soon. I don't want a morgue full of bodies before this guy, and any accomplices, is caught."

* * *

That night, in Sam's apartment, was not a comfortable one. The clock above his TV read 2:35am. On his coffee table lay sheets upon sheets of notes on this new case. The TV was on, very quietly, drumming out a newscast. A floor lamp behind it softly illuminated Sam's modestly small lounge. A sofa sat in front of the coffee table, and behind the TV was a window, with its curtains drawn shut. Beside the window rested the front door; dead-bolted, as Sam always liked when home.

The quietness of the TV was no match for the light breathing of Sam on the sofa, almost sprawled out. Tiredness had overtaken some time around midnight, and Sam had fallen asleep. However, his slumber was not peaceful, he kept twitching, tossing, and turning. He looked angry, uncomfortable, and small, indistinguishable words escaped his lips.

A sudden jolt awoke him. He shot up like a rocket, his pulse pounding, heart in his throat. He quickly scanned his surroundings; the quiet TV, the softly glowing floor lamp, the dead-bolted front door, and breathed a sigh of relief.

He wiped the small amount of sweat from his upper-brow, before slowly shifting papers from his lap onto the coffee table, and picking those up that had fallen when he had awoken.

He stepped off the sofa, and into the doorway of the kitchen behind him. Another modestly-small workspace greeted him. He flicked on the light to be greeted by an unnaturally (to him) bright light. Tiled from floor-to-ceiling, the white spaces reflected back all light into Sam's eyes, which were used to the softer glow of the lounge. He passed the fridge and walked to the sink, staring out at the city in front of him. Even with the window closed, he could hear the distant rumble of traffic, and the lights of The Strip shone brightly through the gaps in the buildings ahead of him, even though they were over a mile away. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap, and sipped it, contemplating the case he had been assigned.

He was used to cases similar, but never by a million years had he thought he'd be assigned _this one_. It was a sticky situation, and to be landed into it on his first day was pretty much throwing him in at the deep end. _Two bodies_ now rested in the morgue back at work. Two lives that needlessly were ended. Sam sighed slightly, staring out the window still. But not before seeing it.

In the reflection of the window, Sam saw directly it by the kitchen door. A flash of a man in a black ski mask. Sam's head shot around, his pulse now racing, his breathing now heavy, and adrenaline coursing through his body.

He placed the glass down quickly before slowly making his way to the door. The masked man had vanished into thin air. He crept slowly out of the doorway, making sure to check both ways before entering the threshold of the lounge. Directly in front of him from the kitchen was his bedroom door; still shut. And next to that was the door to the bathroom, also shut. He walked cautiously into the lounge, and his heart dropped. His front door was wide open. The cold, soft breeze lifted the curtains next to it.

Sam cautiously walked forward, the soft glow of the room, once peaceful, now inhibited him, prevently him from seeing as clearly as he could. The walkway outside was bathed in a dull, white light, showing the rest of the apartment complex in front of him. The other apartments were as black as the night; not a single light was on, save for the lights in the canopy hung above them, the dull white light shining every ten-or-so feet. Sam quickened his pace, before covering by the open door. He built up some courage before quickly checking outside. A quick left-and-right twist of his head showed no other signs of life. Not even a passing car on the usually busy road to the left. He relaxed slightly; perhaps it was just a trick of the light. Yeah, that was it, he thought to himself. He came away from the wall and shut the door slowly, before dead-bolting it once more. He rest his forehead against the wooden frame.

'But _how_ did this get opened?' he thought to himself.

The thought had barely entered his mind when he was suddenly grabbed from behind. Strong arms yanked him backwards to the floor, his head hitting the carpet beneath him. Slightly dazed, Sam focused just enough to see the man had a knife, poised and ready in his hand. Sam quickly dodged the knife as the man sunk it into the carpet.

Sam's heart now hammered in his chest, as he stood up and quickly took in the details of the intruder. He was about 6'1", round about 200lbs, black ski mask covering his face, and dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans. The man roared and lunged at Sam, who quickly dodged the attack once more, the man's knife cutting into the wall behind him.

Sam rushed quickly into his bedroom, shifting the chest of drawers beside him in front of the door. The door slammed as the man lashed at it to get into the room. Sam ripped apart the curtains on the window, the dim light of the night entered the darkened room. The man's screams and shouts only got louder as he rammed his bodyweight against the barricaded door. Sam slid the window open and looked down. His apartment was on the second floor, so a fall from this height wouldn't instil too much damage to him. He was just about ready to jump, when an unseen man rose from under the bed and dragged him backwards.

Sam attempted to scream, but the man, also in a ski mask, covered his mouth with his gloved hand. He giggled quietly, and almost manically, as the other man finally barged his way into the room.

They threw Sam onto his bed, he hit the headboard with force, knocking him almost unconscious. The men bound Sam with cable ties, and gagged his mouth with a pair of socks from his chest of drawers. Sam moaned, slipping to the point of unconsciousness. His head lolled slightly as one of the men heaved him over his shoulder and out of the apartment, the cool air whipped his face as the man carried him, the second in tow. Sam had no defence. Bound and gagged, he was thrown onto the bed of a pick-up truck waiting at the bottom of the stairs, its cold steel causing Sam to shudder more intensely than before, when sheer terror plunged through him.

The men stepped up onto the backplate too, kneeling before him and laughing together. The first man produced the knife he had held before, and plunged it into Sam's stomach.

Pain like Sam had never experienced before surged through him, hot as lava as blood began to pour out of him. The men didn't stop though, continuing to carve into Sam's flesh as his muffled screams awoke no-one nearby. Sam quickly glanced down, and saw what the men were doing. They were _writing_ into his flesh. The knife was dragged back and forth, causing unending agony to course through him, blood spilling out thick and fast. Sam began to feel numb. The coldness of the pick-up trucks backplate began to fade away.

He gazed down once more, to see the word "_QUEER_" had been carved into his flesh. His eyes widened significantly as he stared from his gushing wound to the men towering above him. The second man produced a bag from his jacket pocket. Inside was plastic wrap and duct-tape. Sam's muffled screams once again fell onto deaf ears, as both men started to kick and punch him all over. His stomach, his legs, his arms, his head. The pain of his injuries intensified with every agonising second. Tears streamed from his eyes, as he knew the hopelessness of his situation.

Finally, the men stopped, and Sam could feel the slight warmth of his blood oozing ever closer to his face. He was beginning to slip even further into unconsciousness, as the truck was brought to life and lurched forwards, driving who-knows-where.

Sam, however weakened and close to dying he was, forced himself to remain conscious. He could not and would not die from this. Judging by his extreme injuries, which refreshed their anger and pain with each passing heartbeat, he would not hold out for long before bleeding out completely. The colour drained from Sam's face slowly, yet he still clung to life by a very small thread. The truck suddenly stopped, a solitary lamp post shone in Sam's face, the light burning into his retinas to the point he had to squint to block it out somewhat. He heard the sound of two doors slamming, oddly muffled and distant-sounding, and they were there again. The two men's laughter and whispers seemed ever-more distant now. Their jibes and laughter lost in a sea of nothingness. The second man produced the plastic wrap and duct-tape, the men laughing more than ever now. Sam begin to squirm and writhe as much as he could, but his burning and agonising injuries prevented that far too much. He felt the man put a hand on his head before slamming it into the bed of the truck a few times.

Sam could feel the lumps already forming as the first man held his head up, and the second removed the socks from his mouth. Sam didn't have the energy to scream, shout, or even whisper. He merely accepted his fate as the second man began to wrap the plastic wrap around his head, tighter and tighter, sealing in his final few breaths. He duct-taped it shut, the sound of the ripping of tape cutting the air like a knife, Sam was sure, yet he heard almost none of it as panic began to set in once again. He felt himself being lifted up, renewing the excruciating pain once more. He began to panic, his breath was quick and shallow, and his sight was reduced to almost nothing. He could only see lights as he felt the support disappear beneath him. He was falling, to who-knows-where, the laughter of the men slowly drifted further and further away. His stomach lurched as renewed blood spilled from the wounds, the pain still as fresh as when he was first cut into. Sam could see the orange light above his glistening brightly, yet getting smaller and smaller as he plummeted, becoming surrounded in complete darkness. The light was merely a speck before it disappeared. He struggled to breath even worse now, the light was fading in front of his eyes, and not just natural light. All light. His life was being extinguished and there was nothing he could do.

He felt himself still falling endlessly, before he felt himself slam into something...

* * *

A sudden jolt awoke Sam. He shot up like a rocket, his pulse pounding, heart in his throat. He quickly scanned his surroundings; the quiet TV, the softly glowing floor lamp, the dead-bolted front door, and breathed a sigh of relief. It had all been a dream...

(A/N: Uhh... Long time no see guys! Hope you're still here, heheh... Welp, he's the now-infamous fifth chapter of _Canadian Winter_! Sorry about the massive break here, I didn't intend to take a however-long-it's-been hiatus! A lot of stuff has happened, but here is not the place for that! Instead, enjoy this chapter, and expect another one soon! [And by soon I mean in a few weeks, not a year or so!]).


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